


Funeral March

by JoshCo99



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Depression, Gen, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-23 03:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13778820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoshCo99/pseuds/JoshCo99
Summary: In Loving Memory of James Potter & Lily Evans Potter, you are invited to the funeral proceedings, taking place at Godric's Hollow St. Apitaine's Church, at 11:30am.Invite Addressed To: Mr. Remus John Lupin.





	Funeral March

Princely. Even in death, James Potter managed to look princely. Strangely enough, this was the only thought that crossed Remus’ mind. His best friend lay in front of him, open-coffin and grave-faced. Beside him, Lily Evans Potter. Each of them, twenty-one years old, each of them hardened veterans. Remus was twenty-one, and a veteran. He was alive, though. Did that make him the winner? One of the victorious masses that had filled every night with celebration, feasts and drinking? Remus did not feel like a winner. Remus felt as though he had lost every bit as much as the Death Eaters. Almost absent-mindedly, Remus reached a hand out to stroke James’ cheek. The skin underneath his finger was cold, hard. It chilled Remus to the bone. He gulped down something. Tears? Nausea? It was one of the two. He’d long since given up trying to figure out which. He’d learned to repress both. He hadn’t cried yet. He should have. He felt guilty for that. He hadn’t cried, even in front of their bodies. He hadn’t cried when he’d found out about Pettigrew and… The other one. He hadn’t cried when he learnt about Harry. He didn’t know if he could cry.

Remus knew he looked ill. He was pale, scarred, emaciated. More so than normal. His hazel eyes had… Died. There was no other word for it. They were as dead as the lifeless emerald eyes of Lily. He stared at her closed lids for a moment, wondering if they still had their twinkle. He knew they didn’t. That had been Voldemort’s last theft. That shine. The kindness. Gone, in a single instant. Remus turned away.

He walked nowhere. It took hours.

It was dark before he stopped. Sweat raced down his body. He sat down and closed his eyes. And then Death was everywhere. He flew over his head, riding curses and shrapnel. The grim smile of every shard of metal, every green flash. It had been terrifying then. It seemed inviting now. The yells of the nameless, faceless, soulless men in front. The screams of the innocent, fire-forged friends behind. The fizzes, bangs and hisses of Death’s envoys all around, bouncing off walls, scattering colourful sparks all over the floor, ceiling and everything inbetween. The air was filled. It was glorious. It was life.

It was over. His eyes opened. Life had ended. The glory had ended. Feeling had ended. Emptiness remained, or didn’t remain. Remus didn’t know which it was. He thought about this for a long time. Could emptiness remain? Or was it the absence of remaining? Eventually, he decided he didn’t care. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. James was gone. Lily was gone. Peter was gone. The other one was gone. Harry was gone, from him at least. His old world had disappeared, in one night. The new world was not suitable. It was uninhabitable. The atmosphere was toxic. It would kill him, he knew that. He had accepted that. A dangerous thought flittered through his mind. Flirting, seducing him. It strained through his brain, like tendrils of warmth. A comfort, at last. A power, given only to him. It was unbearable. The thought of it scared him. Not for the act, but the yearning. His soul wracked itself with the yearning, the envy of the dead. The warmth of the ground. The comfort of a compost duvet.

Remus had not even seen them buried.

He could not do it. Harry would grow up, and someone would have to look after him. Why him, though? Why did it have to be him? It didn’t. But it should be. It was his duty. No, his privilege. His life was given purpose for Harry. No. No purpose there. Only yearning, regret, hatred. Harry would be better off without him. What could he give him? A sense of his parents? A link to a murderous traitor? He could give him stories. Memories. Companionship. Most of all, he could give him the knowledge he wasn’t alone. 

Remus was alone. 

The tears came. That word: alone. It seeped deeper than that seduction had. It poured into his soul, ice filling his veins and bringing melted fury, anguish and agony to his eyes, pouring over his scarred cheeks, bridging the gap between lips parted in hateful gasps. His hands shook, white-knuckles. Clasping at nothing but air, nothing but the words he’d said, long ago. Promises made around campfires, drunken stupor distorting the words, but the meaning clear. Or worse, promises made in blood-soaked, fearful rooms, with one of them on the table. Dying, or not dying. Everything hanging in the balance. Life itself. Glorious, and terrible. Death Himself smiling from the corner. Promises broken, one by one, snapped in two by the threat of espionage, the threat of betrayal. Promises that would now never be fulfilled. Silly little things, they were. A date, set up by Lily three years ago, with a friend. It never happened. It never would. A drink, offered by James only a year ago. Never to be drunk. The tears came, and came, and swelled. They wouldn’t stop. They betrayed him. They showed him to the cold world, and offered him. Sadness. Weakness. Grief. The plagues of love. The defects of affection. Dragged out and displayed, a human testament to the futility of caring. 

Remus walked nowhere. It took a decade to stop walking. 

The sweet embrace. The sweet, sweet, coddle of Death’s arms. It was coming. He wasn’t ready.


End file.
